Die Unbekannte Blume or The Unknown Flower
by theLastBLACK17
Summary: From the ROTK, beginning at the end of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. What happens when you don't know how the world will end? (Read inside summary if you want a better one)Eowyn, Eomer, Aragorn, ALL THE LOT!
1. The Price of the Battle

** DIE UNBEKANNTE BLUME or THE UNKNOWN FLOWER **

Description/Summary:  
The Battle of the Pelennor Fields has resulted in many deaths and much loss, including the death of the King of the Mark, Theoden. An anxious Eomer waits restlessly by his sister's side, whilst Aragorn, the unofficial King of Gondor tends to her. The wounded are tended to in the famous Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith by the healer king. Aragorn persuades Eomer to take a breather and have a walk in the grounds to relieve himself of his anxiety. Later, Eowyn wanders the grounds firmly believing that the world of Men is doomed. Romance story.

**Author's Note:**  
This is my first attempt at going near anything from Lord of the Rings. Originally, I never thought I would even dare to come close to LOTR territory in terms of fiction because it is such an elaborate and well thought out plot. Therefore, please be kind, bearing in mind I have not done this before.

Please also note, that I am not following the sequences in the book but those from the MOVIE... cause I can remember that better:P

**Legal Disclaimer: **  
The obvious one is that EVERYTHING that is related to LOTR belongs to JRR Tolkien, including all the well-established characters and the LOTR plot. I do own the fact that some of the characters may not be in canon.

**Warning:**  
- For those of you who have not watched _Return of the King – The Lord of the Rings – Special Extended Version_ yet, I warn you of SPOILERS of NEW/EXTENDED SCENES! You have been warned.  
- Movie verse

- + - + - + - + -

**Chapter 1: The Price of the Battle**

Gimli sighed a deep sigh as he watched the last of the eerie green ghost soldiers disintegrate into nothingness. He had tried dissuading Aragorn from letting the Dimholt traitors go. Those soldiers would be mighty useful. If Gimli had been Isildur's heir, he would have made those ghosts do the dirty work – wipe the Orcs and other foul creatures that crawled under the sun off the face of Middle Earth, once and for all.

The rustling wind picked up the last speck of illuminating green dust, until none remained to be seen: the Dimholt traitors, pardoned for their betrayal, were gone forever.

- + - + - + - + -

It was the end of a great battle, fought bravely by the Rohirrim. 

All around him, Éomer could smell death; everywhere he turned, he heard the last breaths of men dying on the field; everywhere he looked, he saw men with their heads spliced open, gaping wounds beginning to putrefy, blood staining almost every helmet. Those who had managed to escape the battle with nothing but a few scratches were walking around, searching for the bodies of their friends.

No one had emerged unscathed. Even Éomer himself, one of the best knights of Rohan, had come out of the battle with a small cut to his upper arm.

- + - + - + - + -

The soldier of Gondor sank back against a pillar on the main street of the fifth level, clutching the left side of her neck. The most incredible thing had happened. They had been fighting the invaders when a host of _skeletons_ had swooped into the citadel, armed with weapons and armour, filling every nook and alleyway, fighting the foul beasts of Mordor. The soldiers of Gondor were untouched by these soldiers – _these gifts_ – sent by the Valar themselves. And the soldiers regained their confidence, helping the sweeping ghost army to rid the city of orcs.

The pain throbbed more violently between her left shoulder and her neck, bringing back memories of her attacker: an Orc with a dark twisted face, and filthy amber eyes. She remembered standing within the throng of fighting, watching as it approached up the slanting street, unsheathing a sword, curved in the shape of a wriggling snake, the sword's glinting blade gleaning with a sickly yellow tinge. It had picked up its pace, suddenly running with increased speed towards her. She ran to meet it, her sword flashing in front of her, thinking "For you, Faramir my love, for you." The evil Orc dodged her impetus, turned sideways, and forced the snake blade through the flesh between her neck and shoulder, before drawing it out, equally as painfully again.

Enraged, she had driven her sword towards its head, but the wound caused dizziness, her footing became unsure. It was then that the valiant soldier nearest to her kicked the Orc from behind, before severing its head with a singing of his sword. And to the relief of every soldier on the stinking street, the ghost army had appeared then, like angels, brandishing weapons into the faces of the bewildered Orcs. 

Now the soldier with the agonizing pain in her neck walked unsteadily towards the side pillar, removing her helmet as she dropped to the floor. The Orc had outwitted her. She remembered her courage dissipating as it ran towards her, how she had felt her eyes dilating in fear as the reality of the brute kicked in. She remembered the sinking feeling that perhaps, they _were_ right after all, to try and prevent her from fighting.

_"War is not for women,"_ someone had once told her. How very wise. But now, she couldn't recall who it was that had said that. She only knew that she had failed in her headstrong and futile 'quest' to defend Minas Tirith for the sake of Captain Faramir. How wrong she was. She had been courageous when she had prepared for battle. Now a bitterness with herself filled her mind, as she thought about her uselessness, in managing only to slash the one Orc.

Leaning her head back against the sturdy pillar, she rested her arms in her lap between her stomach and drawn up knees. A tear eroded the dirt on her face, coursing down her cheek like the Anduin to the Sea.

The street was now largely empty compared to its bustling nature a day before. The few soldiers who had been lucky enough to survive the attack were now wandering around to find the commander Mithrandir, to ask him what they would be doing next.

"Now, now, lad, there's no need for tears…"

Her eyes flickered open for a brief moment, and she saw her protector removing his helmet, to examine her wound more closely. She judged him to be between 30 to 40 years old, from the number of lines on his face.

"A lad like you shouldn't be fighting," he muttered under his breath. "Young… much too young to see these horrors, and to be scarred by such foul creatures."

Her body ached, but she smiled at the irony of what the soldier had said. She breathed in sharply, eyes opening wide, when he ran his fingers lightly over her wound. Slowly, she felt the poison working in her body. Her breathing grew faster in her struggle to breathe, and then, her eyes admitted defeat, squeezing shut in her pain.

"Lad… lad!"

Slowly, slowly, the deep voice of her rescuer grew quieter until it had faded out completely, and her world had turned into a black vacuum.

- + - + - + - + -

Aragorn stepped lightly between the corpses, surveying the damage of the battle. He scanned the field frequently for any fallen survivors, stopping sometimes to check the pulse of an already dead man. Gimli and Legolas were also by his side. For once, they had stopped bickering about how many Orcs and Haradrim they had each killed, saddened by the numbers of the dead around them. It was very hard to feel anything positive in the company of the dying men, and Aragorn's heart sank, wondering how on earth they would get _all_ the dead buried, how they would get _all _the wounded safely within the White City to be healed, and above all, he wondered how they were supposed to defend the Countries of the West with so few men. He was sure that there would have been as many losses and casualties within the city as on the battlefield.

So much death, so much suffering, all for one common cause. Frodo's cause: thousands of lives being extinguished for the one chance to destroy the forces of evil. One chance. And weighed up against all the odds, this chance was very, very small.

Aragorn hoped that the plan they had set out on would succeed, otherwise he would cry in despair.

+ - + - + - + -

Éomer spotted something strange poking out of the trampled yellow grass. It was a mace, a ridiculously large mace, made with sixteen sharp points – certainly not a weapon of the Rohirrim. It was too ugly, too spiky, not at all elegant. The people of Rohan preferred using swords, spears and bows.

He walked closer, intrigued by what he saw and as he approached, he inspected the ground for his uncle, Théoden King.

"NOOOOOOO!" he cried in great anguish as he discovered the slender frame of his sister's body lying on the ground. He felt a strange mixture of emotions. Anger and frustration first, at how his sister had disobeyed both his and their uncle's orders, which were to stay at Edoras for the people. Secondly, he felt a sense of pride for this sister who had fought as good as a man's war. And grief. Grief that he might never see her happy smile again. He regretted their last words together, back at Dunharrow, where they had argued coldly about the Halfling's right to fight.

_"To the smithy," __É__owyn__ said, chuckling. "Go!"_

_The Halfling ran off in excitement, happy that someone was taking him seriously. _

_É__omer__ heard his sister laughing to herself. _

_"You should not encourage him," he said, turning to face her from his sitting position. He chewed his morsel of bread hungrily, eager to get down as much food as possible. He doubted that he would get a chance to eat fully again, until after the inevitable battle near Minas Tirith. _

_"And you should not doubt him," she had replied. He could detect the coldness and the hurt in her voice. _

_"I do not doubt the courage in his heart," he had said, drawing laughter from Gamling. "Just the reach of his arm."_

_"Why should he not fight for his friends? For the people he loves? He has as much cause as you," she retorted. _

_His suspicions were correct – ever had __É__owyn__ desired to be renowned for battle. Her footsteps turned back to the tent. He stood up and faced her. _

_"You know as little of war as that Hobbit," he said, walking closer to her. _

_"When the horrors of war take hold, and he hears the screams of men dying around him, do you think he would stand and fight?" _

_His sister looked at him, her mouth set. _

_"He would flee, and he would be right to do so. War is the province of men, __É__owyn__…" He put a hand on her shoulder, seeing her eyes twitching slightly, then turned away. _

Éomer remembered that the next day, Éowyn had been courteous as ever, but frostier towards him than usual. Their parting had not been good… reflecting back on it now, he could understand her passionate defense for the Halfling… sort of… her could see now that all she had ever wanted to do was to fight in a battle, to be a mighty warrior. And now, she had had her chance… and it had cost her her life.

- + - + - + - + -

Gandalf placed his hand calmingly onto the shoulder of the sobbing Rohan Marshal. His heart was heavy, and he was growing wearier with each minute. He had not yet told Aragorn of the passing of Denethor, nor of the niggling in his heart that strongly said that he had certainly sent Frodo to his death. He did not know how they would react to his heart's news, and exhaustion was beginning to overtake him – as of that moment, they had only fought a tiny portion of Mordor's armies. The enemy was continually regrouping, and would not stop until they had destroyed the World of Men.


	2. The Houses of Healing

**DIE UNBEKANNTE BLUME - - THE UNKNOWN FLOWER**

**Author's Note**

It's taking AGES to write up chapters, apologise for that, but this is because there is a hell of a lot of research that you have to do before you can write ANYTHING down. I'm sure not a lot of you are aware of this, but the last chapter, I rewrote twice because of mistakes etc. But it is fun writing this story… really… so here goes!

**Legal Disclaimer**  
I am not in anyway discrediting any of Tolkien's work. It is entirely his, and the movie verse belongs to Peter Jackson and Fran Walsh. However I do own the Gondorian soldier who got pierced between the neck and the shoulder.

**Warning**  
- Movie verse  
- perhaps some spoilers, for those who have not watched the films yet

- + - + - + - + -

**Chapter 2: The Houses of Healing**

The beds in the Houses of Healing were filling up quickly. The stench of rotting flesh intermingled with the sweet scents of the herbs and the medicines, creating a bittersweet infusion, that tantalised Aragorn's senses as he worked from soldier to soldier, healing their wounds with what little knowledge he had.

_The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known._

Everywhere around him, he could hear the healers of the House whispering this prophesy, spoken by Ioreth, head of the women healers in Gondor. It was discomforting to know that so many lives were placed in his hands. Was he really worthy of this?

He pressed the athelas-water soaked cloth onto the head of the soldier on the bed, breathing in the calming smell of the herb.

_"Sam, do you know athelas?"_

_"Athelas?" Sam had asked, puzzled by the high sounding name. _

_"Kingsfoil…"_

_"But that's a weed!"_

_"It may help to slow the poisoning."_

Aragorn smiled to himself, in recollection of those events so long ago. He shook himself free of the old thoughts, sharply reminding himself that he did not have time to do so, there were plenty of soldiers in need of his help, some of them on their deathbeds.

"Change his dressings every hour," he said to one of the nearby healers, "you must make sure that his fever does not reach any higher or we will lose him. Lave his head with the athelas water… it will help."

"Yes sir," replied the healer, curtseying politely.

Aragorn grimaced as he was ushered to the next patient, a slender soldier with a sickly yellow liquid oozing out from a strange twisted wound between the neck and shoulder. A tall, unwounded soldier sat next to this patient, holding the hand, white as the first of the winter frost.

"My lord," said the soldier, standing up. He held out a blade, as twisted as the forked tongue of Gríma Wormtongue. "The lad was small, too small against this _foul Orc_," the soldier spat those words out, "and this is the blade that the monster used to strike this young lad down."

The soldier stepped back, to allow Aragorn to examine the blade. Collecting the foul liquid into a container, he added crystals of a white salt-like substance. The standing soldier watched with curiosity as the sickly liquid turned as rusty a red as the sky which hung perpetually over the wasted Black Lands.

"Aragorn," said a soft voice from behind the soldier, "what is that unnatural poison you hold?"

Legolas squatted down at Aragorn's side to look at the substance in the container. His face turned away in disgust as he recognised what it was. The elven prince looked upon the face of the victim who had been subject to the poison.

"My lord," interrupted the soldier, "What poison is it? Will the young lad die?"

Legolas stood up, smiling at the soldier to disguise his anxiety.

"Thank you," he said, "You have helped us well by supplying the blade. You are tired, and must rest. You can come back tomorrow to visit your friend."

"But what if…"

"Faith," said the elven prince, "faith that this young soldier will awaken, faith that he will recover. You cannot help him if you yourself are exhausted."

The soldier had one last look on the soldier whom he had come to think almost of as his own child.

"Go. Get some rest."

Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas watched as the soldier walked away from the Houses of Healing, shoulders relaxed, relieved of their burden.

"Who is it?" he asked of Aragorn, who now knelt by the wounded soldier's side, laving the wound with the athelas water.

Aragorn shrugged, then cleared the hair from the pale face to have a proper look. He gave a gasp of astonishment as he brushed away the hair.

"Legolas?" asked Gimli gruffly, eager to know who it was that was making Aragorn gasp in astonishment, and Legolas' face go paler than it already was with horror.

"Merda!" exclaimed Aragorn, stroking the face of the soldier with utmost care, "mellon nîn, mellon nîn…" (1)

"What is he saying, Legolas?"

But Aragorn and Legolas ignored what remarks Gimli made, they were too busy deciding what to do next to bother about all else that happened.

"We must do something quickly," said Legolas hurriedly, "for she is no Frodo."

There was a pause, as Aragorn paced around, racking his brains for the best medication he could give to the soldier.

"She?" exclaimed Gimli, surprised that a woman would so willingly go into battle, where other women would not.

"Simbelmynë. Athelas, that we have here… Legolas, you must get me the flower simbelmynë, and the withered leaves of the mallorn tree."

"The mallorn tree? Ai, Aragorn… the mallorn lives only in Lòrien."

"Make haste!" said Aragorn, impatiently.

"And where do you propose I find the leaves of the mallorn within the distance of a day's gallop?" Legolas retorted, using many hand gestures. "She will die if we do not get medication to her within the next twelve hours!"

Aragorn stood up, his face streaked with lines of worry, and laying a hand on his friend's shoulder, he said, "Yes. I know. And it will be a blow to her kin if she is to fall. Do you know of another plant Legolas? One that can replace the withered leaves of the mallorn?"

His friend smiled back at him… a genuine smile.

"I know of a substitution, and I will get both for you within the next half hour," he replied, dashing off to get the flower and the mysterious ingredient.

Gimli opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it. He sat down and watched as Aragorn continued to nurse the soldier.

+ - + - + - + -

"Orophin!" shouted Legolas, waving his arms at the master of herb lore. Legolas ran down to the bottom of the stairs where the herb master stood, sorting his plants and medicines.

"Orophin!"

"My lord?" asked Orophin, surprised to see an Elven man yelling at him in excitement.

"Have you any simbelmynë?" the Elf lord asked, slightly out of breath.

"Simbelmynë? The Rohirric flower?" Orophin furrowed his brow, trying to remember what the flower looked like.

"Yes, yes, the mourning flower of Rohan," replied Legolas, clicking his tongue impatiently.

"Why? Is another of the knights of Rohan dead that we must perform burial rites?"

Legolas felt exasperated inside. He had watched as Aragorn had thrown his hands up in frustration when Orophin had related the linguistic history of the word athelas, when all he had wanted to know was whether or not there was some athelas in the Houses of Healing.

"I just want to know whether or not there is any simbelmynë in this house!"

"Alright sir, calm yourself," said the herb master, turning into his cupboards to look for the mourning flower. He found a bunch, obtained when he last visited Rohan containing eight small star shaped white flowers.

"Thank you!" replied Legolas, his body half out of the front door.

Now. To get the substitution for the withered mallorn leaves.

First, he climbed the remaining three levels up to the top of the citadel. As he approached the white courtyard of stone, he silently cursed. He had forgotten that there were still guards around the White Tree. Guards wearing ridiculously impractical helmets, with pieces of steel shaped as gull's wings attached to the helmet so that the guards looked like they had huge dog ears. Did they think they could _fly_ with them? _Iluvatar_, if the Nazgûl were clever, they would attack these guards by swiping at the metal gull's wings.

Shaking his head, Legolas approached the tree. If there were any stray bits of bark on the ground, they would do, and there would be no hassle. He glanced at the foot of the tree. No, no sign of any white bark.

He approached the tree still further, touching its bark lightly with his fingers. It was so old, but it was dead. Putting his ear to its heart, he could hear nothing.

This tree had never been taught the Speech.

"Sir!" said one of the guards, shield and spear ready at hand.

"Sir!" he repeated again, still more urgently, as Legolas subtly removed some of the bark. The guard did not see the bark as Legolas hid it within his Lòrien cloak, but he did not question further, for he was entranced by the prince's aura.

"Yes, I am just about to leave."

The guard was still standing there, an hour later, entranced by the beauty of the being he had just seen.

+ - + - + - + -

"Lasto beth nîn," said a voice above her head somewhere. She could not see who it was, blinding light was streaming from behind the figure, making the figure look like the olden pictures of the Valar.

_Come back, come back to the light… _

_You are the golden flower of your people. Come back, come back before they despair…_

She could feel the lightness of the Undying Lands come to her, she could smell the fresh green fields, taste the sparkling water, and hear its musical voice, more musical even than the Nimrodel in the land of her mother's kin.

_Elanor__… im Aragorn… lasto beth __n__î__n__ … lasto beth __n__î__n__ … do not turn away, not now… (2)_

Something touched the pain between her left shoulder and her neck. It stung like the poison of a thousand wasps and she lost all consciousness.

+ - + - + - + -

The medicine was effective. After Legolas had come back with the flowers and the tree bark, Aragorn had carefully pounded the bark into a powder. Using water to revive the flowers, he pulled off one petal, shredded it expertly with his knife, and then placed it into a smaller bowl where he poured a small spoonful of the powder. Then, he mixed half a goblet of water into the bowl, making a pale ivory-coloured herbal paste, which he then spread across Elanor's wound. Whilst Legolas was away hunting for the ingredients, he and Gimli had carefully washed her neck, cleansing it of the yellow poison as much as possible.

"She breathes much more easily," observed Legolas, who was sitting in a chair next to Elanor's bed, "the medicine is working."

Aragorn nodded. Something grabbed at his arm… Gimli.

"Perhaps now is a good time to tell me about this mysterious soldier who is not a man?"

"Yes. Yes it is," replied Aragorn, relaxing his body.

"Now. You are aware that the Lord Elrond is the father of Arwen Evenstar, are you not?"

"Aye, although I have never seen her."

"She was the woman who gave me this jewel," replied Aragorn, showing Gimli the glittering diamond of the Evenstar. "It was thanks to both you and Legolas that I recovered it at Helm's Deep after that battle with the wolves of Isen."

Legolas looked up, and saw briefly, the appreciation that shone from Aragorn's eyes, the depth of his love for the Arwen Undómiel.

"The Lord Elrond is father to four children, that is, if you can call those who are over two thousand years old _children_," said Aragorn, laughing quietly.

"There are the twins Elladan and Elrohir, Arwen, and another _child_, a maiden, who is _this soldier_ who lies here on this bed."

Gimli flickered his eyes to the sleeping figure.

"This, my dear Dwarf, is Elanor, the youngest of the children of Elrond."

Legolas rose to speak, "And Gimli. She is not renowned even in the Elven world because the fame of Arwen Evenstar eclipses any of her elven kindred born after her."

"Well," said Gimli, curtly, "she is a very brave lass… aye, very, very brave."

+ - + - + - + -

"Her arm is broken in three places," said Aragorn, looking up to Éomer for explanation, but receiving none, "and she has fever."

Éomer did not answer. The new King of the Mark was silent, his eyes lined with tears that refused to be shed, he did not feel the responsibility he had inherited from his uncle. He felt nothing but emptiness.

Aragorn looked at the Man of Rohan, his head cocking to one side, in concern for his friend. No matter how much he wanted to comfort Éomer, no words were coming out right now that would put the man's mind at ease. One had to be careful with words they said. It was very easy for the wounded to slip into the world of death without warning. Aragorn would never have forgiven himself if he had told his friend that his sister would live, if she could not.

He soaked the cloth again with athelas water. Countless times he had done this and yet Éowyn's fever adamantly did not subside. Her breathing was shallow, and seldom. He placed the cloth again on her forehead, squeezing the soothing water gently onto her forehead.

Just by moving his head up very slightly, he could see Legolas wiping the paste gently off his cousin's neck. The bark of the White Tree must have had miraculous healing powers, for Legolas did not apply so much paste onto the wound now as Aragorn had.

+ - + - + - + -

**Notes:**

(1) Elvish words meaning _my friend, my friend_

(2) Elvish words meaning _Elanor__, I am Aragorn, listen to my voice, listen to my voice…_

**Finally at the end of Chapter 2! KK. Hope you all enjoyed that, or if not, then tell me why not in a review! So people, please please review! **


	3. The Stars are Fading

**DIE UNBEKANNTE BLUME - - THE UNKNOWN FLOWER**

**Author's Note**

THIRD CHAPTER! Yeah, go me! Anyway, I hope you are all enjoying this. I write this for the sake of myself, and all the other LOTR fans out there. I dedicate this to … hmm.. let's dedicate this to my friend Elil Galia (fellow writer on Random note: I got a chocolate stain on the pink shirt I'm wearing, and I have no idea how the hell it got there… although, I was eating chocolate ice cream… still have no idea how it got there :s

**Legal Disclaimer**

The original story of the Lord of the Rings are the wonderworks of Tolkien and his brain

Phrases that are movie related are works of Peter Jackson and his team of writers

The song is from the Lord of the Rings, Return of the King Special Extended DVD version, scene 56, which I **think** is sung by Liv Tyler (but don't hold me to it, cause I might be wrong!) – the extra verse and slight adaptation is MINE!

**Warning**

Movie verse

+ - + - + - + -

**Chapter 3: The stars are fading**

The night was growing old and the real darkness of the world covered the skies as well as one of the elven cloaks made by Galadriel.

_"Seldom do we clothe strangers in the garb of our own people, but may these cloaks shield you from unfriendly eyes…"_

The list of patients on Aragorn's list was constant, neither diminishing nor increasing, even though there were some deaths from those too injured to be cured. But those touched by the hands of Aragorn were slowly revived. There was still a glimmer of light for the world of Men.

The atmosphere in the hospital was solemn. This was no place for laughter or mirth, especially after the slaughter both in the city and on the Pelennor fields. What Aragorn would have given, just to hear someone laugh merrily, or to see someone smile…

He allowed Éomer to watch his sister, giving himself a small break to look around at the other patients. He should not have done so, that was favouritism, but he had decided to check on Elanor, Elrond's youngest daughter, the unknown flower, who was broken by the Orc.

Elanor.

She had been so named, after the golden sunflowers that grew on the carpets of Lórien. Her birth had been a source of joy to both her parents, her birth had brought a brightness to their lives as the flowers of the Golden Wood bring beautiful brightness into the eyes of the weary traveller.

Her hair was the of the same darkness as her siblings and father, her silver eyes as keen as an eagle. Her soft skin was a healthy colour, not as pale as Éowyn, showing that Elanor loved being under the sun.

Elanor. Elrond had often called her his 'sun-daughter'.

_Mellon nîn,_ thought Aragorn, _why did you battle today in Minas Tirith? Why did you not stay in your father's safe house? Why did you come here? _

He kissed her brow, hoping that she would awaken from her deep slumber, hoping that she was not going to join the rest of the fading human lives.

+ - + - + - + -

Legolas sat in the darkness waiting.

They were all waiting. Healers, the wounded, his comrades, his friends. Waiting for recovery, for peace, for some joy in the long darkness that awaited them if Frodo's quest failed.

_"And what then? What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"_

The words of Boromir should never have haunted him, but they did. Legolas had never felt any sympathy or closeness with the Man of Gondor, who had tried to steal the One Ring. From their first meeting, Legolas had sensed that there was something amiss in Boromir's aura. It was a strange inkling of _distrust_ that Legolas had felt sitting in the Council of Elrond, although he had never before in his life met Boromir.

What would happen if Frodo discarded the Ring into Mount Doom? What would his life become? Would he be able to settle back into the otherworldly life he had once led, as the Prince of the Mirkwood Realm? Would he be able to cope with the ethereal living standards of the Eldar? It was strange to think of his life like this, Legolas knew, but his life had become so tied up with the Quest of the Ring, that the Fellowship had become his brethren, his family. Well, a family without women. The Elves were –_ 'the Elves'? _Was he referring to his own kin as a separate race now?

No. The Elves were not a separate race to him. Never in a lifetime. But they were so different, now that he had become part of the Fellowship, that he found himself wondering what it was that he actually had in common with his kindred, apart from physical similarity. His role in the Fellowship had set him apart, his place there felt so correct. He had even become accustomed to the Halflings and their eating habits, that he could even recite all their meal times. Never again would he be able to stroll in the great halls of his father without remembering the toasts that they had made in the Hall of Meduseld, to those who had sacrificed their lives in the Battle of Helm's Deep.

Legolas' life had changed.

It was so quiet here, in the small gardens of the Houses of Healing, so quiet, that it brought back to Legolas a sense of the Eldar etherealness amidst the city of Men. It was so quiet, save for the swishing of the leaves in the breeze that he could hear a voice, someone singing. Someone who seemed both by his side, and somewhere distant.

It could have been a trick of his mind. For all he knew, the Abhorred One could be manipulating him, but the song was too real, its lyrics too beautifully Elvish that never in a million years could they be considered a making of Sauron.

_With a sigh, you turn away_

_With a deepening heart, no more words to say _

_You will find, that the world has changed_

_Forever_

The voice was familiar. He had heard this voice only once before, but it was enough for him to remember it through the remaining Ages left on Middle Earth.

_The trees are now turning, from green to gold_

_And the sun is now fading upon our world_

_The First Ones, they leave us for distant shores_

_And beauty will come back _

_Together with a fall. _

A small smile played on Legolas' lips.

It was the sweet voice of Arwen Undómiel, neither here nor there, but it was in the atmosphere, surrounding him and the Houses of Healing. Although the song carried a great sadness about it, the lulling melody set his mind at ease.

+ - + - + - + -

Éomer looked suspiciously at Aragorn when he heard what the Ranger had said.

"What?"

Aragorn inhaled slowly, and said, "Take a rest. Walk around the grounds for a bit, get some food."

The look on Éomer's face suggested plainly that Aragorn must be out of his mind. His facial expression changed to surprise as he found Aragorn laughing at him.

"You are like the Gondorian who brought in the soldier who lies over there," he pointed at Elanor's bed. "He would not even go home to rest although it was obvious that he was weary."

Éomer laughed along, but he did not want to be swept so easily from his sister's side whilst she was still sick.

A sturdy hand clasped his right shoulder, and he watched as Aragorn's eyelids flickered up, his keen blue eyes looking at him.

"There is nothing to worry about, Éomer. You must rest assured that she will recover quickly. Go. Have some food, some drink, and rest. Walk around. Breathe in the fresh air of the Houses of Healing."

"You cannot send me so easily away. I will not leave my sister's side."

"And I tell you that it is not healthy to sit here in anxiety, taking nothing to eat, taking no rest."

Éomer leaned in, his face unyielding, "And what if my sister should wake? I would rather be at her side, to be there for her. She and I are the only ones left of our kin. I will not abandon her so easily. You do not understand what it is like to be the last member of your kin."

"I tell you, I will not leave her abandoned. She is quite safe here, Éomer! Your sister has a strong will. She will be safe. I swear."

Éomer sat back, still feeling as unrelenting as ever. He hated to admit it, but Aragorn was right. His stomach was grumbling loudly, it was almost embarrassing.

"Alright," he said at last, "I shall get some food… but I bring it to eat here, by her side."

He stood up to leave, but was stopped by Aragorn's hand on his shoulder.

"Gandalf was right… the stubbornness of the Horse Lords cannot be matched."

+ - + - + - + -


End file.
